Bad Penny Blues

by Cathi Unsworth

  “Do you think we can get back in here in the holidays,” I whispered to Jackie as another debutante furnished me with her phone number and an idea of an acceptable price for the dress that made my head swim. “To use the screen printers?”

  “I dare say,” Jackie replied. “I think I've made an impression on the old fruit that taught us. I'm the only one that listens to his stories about Les Ballets Russe, that's got to be worth the keys to his lock-up.”

  “Because,” I said, pulling Lenny into a conspiratorial huddle, “the way things are going tonight, we have the makings of a nice little business sideline.”

  “I told you,” said Lenny.

  I looked over to where Jenny was engaging a severe-looking woman with a tight black bun and red lipstick in conversation. “She was right,” I admitted. “She is the best advert I could have had for it.”

  “I know.” Lenny cocked his head to one side, regarding her. “I bet that's not just any old Kensington fossil she's chatting up over there. That's probably the editor of Vogue.”

  “Aye,” Jackie nodded, “she's got ambition, I'll give her that.”

  “Three shops, twelve buyers,” I said, counting the cards out in the pub round the corner afterwards, “and the fashion editor of the Daily Mail.” Lenny had almost been right about the lady with the black bun. I guessed Jenny's family moved in such circles. Her father, Chris had told me, was some sort of architect.

  “Sixteen squares all wanting to be hip.” Jenny sat on a barstool leaning against the counter. She had changed back out of the dress into an all-black combination of polo-neck, ski pants and long black boots. With her new hairstyle she looked stunningly Modernist, commanding the drunken gazes of just about every male student who had crowded into the tiny snug bar. “That's just the tip of the iceberg,” she continued, blowing smoke from a black Sobranie. “There'll be scores more wanting the look, you'll see.”

  “You've done brilliantly darling.” Toby squeezed my waist and I almost dropped all my precious cards into the grate. I was sitting on his knee on a chair by the fire where it was beginning to get hellishly hot, but there were so many of us rammed into this little back room we were lucky not to be standing.

  I went to put them back in the zip compartment of my handbag and realised there was another card already in there. I lifted it out and examined it.

  The Christian-Spiritualist Greater World Association, it read, 3 Lansdowne Road, London W11. Mrs M Matherson, Readings and Consultations, call KENSINGTON 7080…

  It was Mya's card. I quickly shoved it back inside my bag, hoping Toby hadn't noticed what I was fiddling around with. Of course I had known what she was and why she was interested in me, I just didn't want to acknowledge it, didn't want to get involved. But now this stuff seemed to be following me around…

  “What's all the fuss about a frock?” A voice cut through my sudden paranoia. Toby had brought his new friends Bernard Baring and Terence Singer up to the pub with him. A couple of fellows I had pegged as students at the AGOG party, who, despite being in the year below us, were already starting to make names for themselves.

  It was Baring who spoke and his voice had just enough of an edge to it to make me look up sharply. He had a hooked nose and pale eyes, scruffy, shoulder-length hair and a fraying grey pullover. He looked as mean as he sounded.

  “A frock!” Jenny shot back at him. “I should say not. It's work of art. Op Art. You know about that, don't you?”

  Baring's expression changed as he looked at her, his brow furrowed.

  “Don't I know you from somewhere?” he said.

  Jenny narrowed her eyes as she exhaled smoke.

  “I don't think so,” she said icily.

  “I'm sure I do…” he began.

  Jenny stubbed her cigarette out. “And I'm sure you don't,” she said.

  Baring shook his head, a slight colour rising in his cheeks, and returned his stare to me. “Well, well done dear,” he said, lifting his gaze over my head towards Toby. “She must be very clever, your wife.”

  “She certainly is,” Toby agreed, taking it as a compliment. “At this rate we'll have no problems raising the rent for a studio next year.”

  “Oh,” said Baring, “a studio. Did you hear that Terry?” He nudged Singer in the ribs. Singer, who was more than half cut, smiled soporifically as he leant against the fireplace.

  “Oh yes.” Toby grinned at him, oblivious to how envious Baring sounded. “Bring on the Nineteen Sixties,” he said. “The Fifties have gone on long enough. We're all going to make our mark on the new decade.”

  I saw Jenny roll her eyes and glance at her watch.

  Toby was in his cups himself, carried away with end of term fever. Aware that the euphoria of the sixteen cards was draining out of me faster than any amount of restorative alcohol was going in, I wondered how hard it would be to get him out of here.

  Respite came through the door in a blast of cold air and a long black coat.

  “Greetings, hepcats,” said Dave. “Who wants to come to a party?”

  “At last.” Jenny slid off her stool and wound her way towards him, trailing her coat and bag behind her. “It was getting awfully dreary here, wasn't it Stella?”

  “Yes,” I looked at Baring, “it was.”

  But Baring was staring at Dave now, with something like awe in his eyes.

  “Well then, ladies and gents, your chariot awaits…”

  “What?” Toby swivelled round. “Dilworth, my man! Did you just mention a party?”

  With a huge sense of relief we made our escape from the over-heated pub. There wasn't room in Dave's old station wagon for more passengers so we left Baring and Singer on the pavement, the former scowling, the latter trying to flag down a cab while reeling around a lamp-post.

  “God, what a pair!” Jenny said as we started away.

  “Good men, both of them.” Toby was much more drunk than I'd realised, a big, silly smile plastered all over his face. “Hope they manage to catch a cab.”

  I exchanged glances with Jenny in the rearview mirror.

  “Here.” Toby rummaged in his breast pocket and pulled out the bottle of brandy that had obviously been sustaining him throughout the day. “Who wants a nip? I say, I can't wait to get to this party, where did you say it was again?”

  “Ledbury Road,” Dave was smiling now, “cat I knew from St Martin's. He's just built a spaceship out of plastic coffee cups and his rich missus thought he should throw a party to celebrate. A launch party…”

  We all started laughing at that, driving through the park, which was hung with Christmas lights.

  “Prepare for blast off!” shouted Toby. “1960, here we come!”

  PART TWO

  NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRE

  1963

  11 THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES

  “’En-ery! ’En-ery! ’En-ery!”

  Thirty five thousand pairs of lungs bellowed out his name. The tiers of Wembley Stadium echoed the impact of thirty five thousand pairs of stamping feet, thirty five thousand pairs of clapping hands, a sound so dense and electrifying it felt like thunder roaring around the auditorium. The energy of the masses all focused on one man. A man to be a hero in a world that had turned, a world that had changed, into Tuesday 13 June 1963: a time of defecting spies and defective politicians, Kim Philby gone into the Moscow cold, John Profumo roasted over the Westminster coals, eight days gone from office.

  “’En-ery! ’En-ery! ’En-ery!”

  The anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, but which Empire would fall tonight? A young American in the White House, riots in the Deep South and down below, the 21-year-old Kentuckian challenger was stepping through the ropes. On his head was a cardboard crown, on his back a red robe bearing the words: THE GREATEST. The world had turned and the world had changed. All the mighty din of the crowd, all the anger and rage directed at him for his insolence, for calling his opponent a bum, a tramp and a cripple, just rolled straight off his perfect, gleaming brown skin
. Cassius Clay just couldn't stop smiling.

  “’En-ery! ’En-ery! ’En-ery!”

  Eight years older and twenty pounds lighter, Henry Cooper entered opposite, his expression set, as grim as granite. He didn't have to play to the crowd, every one of those thirty five thousand hearts was beating just for him: our ’Enery, the Pride of England. Pete felt all his hairs stand on end as he watched him, a strange feeling inside him tearing him back to the past, to memories of his father, a man like Henry Cooper who stood up straight and stoic against all the abuse you could hurl at him, who would use actions, not words, to prove his strength and courage. He wished his Dad could be with him now.

  Pete had never been ringside at such a fight as this in all his life and was pretty sure that if he lived to be a hundred he would never see the like of it again. He'd had special favours bestowed on him to get these seats, so close to the ropes he could see Liz Taylor's diamonds glittering in the front row. And for the first time in over a year, he wouldn't have to feign any of his emotions with the company he'd been keeping. Tonight, they were all on the same side.

  The British Empire heavyweight champ had a record of twenty seven wins, his last defeat way back in December ’61. Had a left hook on him that could floor an ox and everyone was depending on him to deploy it and see off this unbeaten upstart with his big, loud mouth. Cassius Clay had been lording it up in the back pages of every newspaper for weeks, posing for pictures down the dogs and in the clubs, predicting that by round five, ’Enery would be history. He had provided some distraction from disgraced Tory ministers with their call girls and their lies; that trail of carnage that led back to Ladbroke Grove and the recently deceased Peter Rachman. But Pete didn't work that beat any more.

  “’En-ery! ’En-ery! ’En-ery!”

  Aptly named referee Tommy Little stood between the two men as they faced off from their corners, bouncing up and down on impatient feet, shadow-punching the air. Out of his cape, Clay's physique was perfect, his muscles round and burnished mahogany, everything in proper proportion. Cooper was leaner, stringier, a post-war, post-ration-book diet no match for what you could get in the land of plenty. For Clay, this fight meant a chance to get to his real goal, a shot at Sonny Liston and the World Heavyweight crown. But for Cooper and everyone calling out his name, this was a rare occasion to prove to the world that Britain still had men who could fight clean.

  So when the man standing next to him nudged Pete in the ribs, bellowing out Henry's name, he smiled straight back at Detective Constable Ronald Grigson. Then he nodded to the man next to him, DC Francis Bream, and let his gaze finish up, for just a second or two, on the red face of DS Harold Wesker which was turned towards the ring. Then he joined his voice to the rest of them as the bell sounded and the two men sprang across the ring towards each other.

  Cooper had his dander up all right – he went straight into Clay, ducking his right with confidence, trying to lure his opponent into his own left, get him onto the ropes. He was all out aggressive which was unlike him, and it seemed to unsettle the cocky Clay, who had doubtless figured he'd done half his job already in the pages of the linens. Within seconds Cooper had him in a clinch, brought up that lethal left under Clay's armpit, got him on the nose, it looked like.

  “Take that you brown bastard!” Wesker bellowed, spittle flying out of his mouth, vein on his forehead like a pulsing worm wriggling across his red skin.

  “He's got ’im.” Grigson jabbed Pete in the side again, pointing towards the ring, where Clay had broken free of Cooper's embrace, spitting blood, phlegm and outrage. Little's arm came down between them for a second and then Cooper was straight back in, out to do as much damage as quickly as he could.

  “I knew our noble ’Enery could ’ave him.” Grigson's face was more grimace than smile, but as Pete had learned, that was his happy look and talking bollocks was all part of the parcel that came with it. Grigson didn't like to hear any voice other than his own, apart from Wesker's that was. They were a right comedy duo they were, especially when they were down the cells, practising some moves of their own on whoever had been unlucky enough to fall into their clutches that day.

  Pete kept his smile in place and his eyes on the action. Cooper ducked under another barrage of punches, got his hands up around Clay's shoulders a second time, pushed him back onto the ropes. Got a few more punches in before the bell rang, the sound of the crowd enough to take Clay's head off for him. This first round was the Englishman's, no question, and Pete was right with him, admiring the quiet dignity couching his fury, the way he'd turned ice into fire.

  “Mebbe he should have kept his trap shut,” Pete shouted back at Grigson. “He's got ’im going now.” Grigson nodded, his sneer deepening as Clay remonstrated with the ref, the jeers raining down on him as he did so.

  The bell sounded for round two and instantly, it was different. Maybe Clay had absorbed all the words, turning them to fuel, spitting back the pure power he had within him. Maybe all the noise was just so much grist for his mill, a force he could feed off. But this time it was he who ducked the other's punches easily, he who looked both calm and deadly, searching for the blind spot that would open Cooper up to him.

  He barely seemed to touch the ground as round and around Cooper he wove, flicking out blows that connected, opening up a gash above Cooper's left eye. Found the weakness, the thin skin, the blood that came too easily. Howls and screams around Pete now, as Cooper pushed Clay back on the ropes, trying to sink the left, only hitting air.

  “Hit him ’Enry, belt the fucker!” Grigson erupted. “Kill him!”

  But Clay was almost mocking Cooper now, opening his arms as if to say, “This all you got?” The bell sounded, round two all Clay's.

  Grigson threw his Woodbine to the floor, stamped on it angrily. Pushed past Bream – still with the sticking-up hair, just less of it these days, pink and ginger freckled skin showing through his crown – to stand at Wesker's side. The Bastard's Apprentice, with his matching dark suit and dark hair, two square-shaped heads shining with hair grease and perspiration. Looked like Wesker was sweating more than Cooper right now, mopping his forehead with a large white handkerchief.

  Now that he'd spent so much time with them, Pete knew why Bream kept such a low profile and his yap shut – it was the only way of getting by with these two and not becoming the Bastard Brothers’ constant target practice. Well, perhaps, not the only way. He had had to take a different tack himself, after all.

  After two years as an aid, Pete had taken his detective's exams. His passmark came back high. He had commendations from his superiors, his standing enhanced by his marriage to Joan in the summer of 1960, a married man always goes further, as his best man Dai Jones had often told him. Joan had been a revelation to Pete. Dick Willcox was right about the intelligence of nurses, and Joan displayed a streak of independence that endeared her to him still more.

  They'd set up home in Oxford Gardens, one of the quieter streets off Ladbroke Grove, a two-bedroom garden flat in a big terraced house – with promotion came a pay rise on top of the police housing allowance and Joan was insistent on buying, putting down some roots in the Wild West. Though she'd given up working after they married, she filled her days with better things than just knitting and cooking, although she was skilled at the both of them. Joan helped out with all the charity work a policeman's wife could manage, took charge of the social functions, got involved with the church and the youth club. Charmed them all, the way she had charmed his Ma, when he had first taken her back up to Yorkshire to meet what was left of his family. He was that proud of her he couldn't think how he had ever managed to live without her.

  But of course, with every ray of sunshine came a black cloud chasing along behind.

  Pete wasn't surprised to receive an offer of a transfer to West End Central to work with Harold Wesker. It was like he'd been expecting it. The bad feeling that fate had placed a finger on his shoulder the night he apprehended Gypsy George and first encountered The Bas
tard had never really gone away.

  The bell sounded in the ring below and Clay was straight into Cooper's corner, jabbing, circling, working his mouth along with his limbs. With every passing second he looked bigger, stronger than the flailing champ. With the cut above his eye leaking more blood and the sweat flying from his forehead, Cooper couldn't seem to pull his sense of purpose back, he looked lost in the middle of this ring where only minutes ago he had looked so strong. Pete felt it in his guts, like it was him who was taking the pounding, all bleeding and disorientated, shouted louder in the desperate hope that his voice could somehow give the other man wings.

  “’En-ery! ’En-ery! ’En-ery!”

  Cooper put his head down, butted Clay back into the ropes, gave himself a few more seconds before the ref broke them apart and then the American was back in his face, outmanoeuvring his every jab, ducking around him, smiling, taunting. Slowing his pace down but still rocking on his hips from side to side, like there was music in his head he was moving to, some secret Kentucky hot jazz soundtrack.

  This was almost too painful to watch. Cooper just couldn't keep up with him, kept falling into a clinch like a drunken man. Pete's insides twisted again as Clay's chopping right found that cut once more, opened up Cooper's eye then proceeded to just dance around in front of him, doing that thing again with his arms, until the round came to a merciful end. Pete sucked his breath again as the air filled with jeers, looked across at Bream who caught his eye and shook his head.

  He was an enigma, was Bream. Whatever did, or didn't go on inside that pointy head of his had been the biggest mystery of West End Central as far as Pete was concerned. It had taken him ages to work out why Wesker wanted him around when there were plenty more like Grigson who were more suited to their kind of work.

  “That's not right,” Pete said to him, as trainer and seconds bustled around the injured Cooper, trying to fix that cut as best they could. “Way he's taunting him, like.”